


Just One Chance

by Wildwolf



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Introspection, M/M, Resurrection, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2014-01-09
Packaged: 2018-01-07 17:06:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1122351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wildwolf/pseuds/Wildwolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-BOFA, slash. Bilbo mourned Thorin's death and never really stopped praying for his return, though he knew it was hopeless. There were things he wanted to say if only they had more time together. What if he was given the chance and the King under the Mountain came back from the dead?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Book-based, as I am rereading the book and take quotes (albeit many paraphrased)/make direct references to things in it. Not that people who have only seen the movies can’t read this, but this story’s plot in itself kind of contains a spoiler (ie: character death). But then so does half the Bagginshield tag.  
> I don’t know where I’m going with this. This is largely an introspection piece. There’s at least one or two more chapters, but it won’t be very long.

**Just One Chance**

**Chapter One**

 

The king was dead.

It was hardly the first instance of death that Bilbo had witnessed since beginning this journey, but the passing of Thorin Oakenshield left him with hollowness in his chest. He turned away and went in search of a quiet place to mourn, because he would mourn as soon as the gravity of the situation hit him. Even Gandalf let him be. He found a small nook out of the way of the hustle and bustle and leaned heavily against the wall. His legs suddenly didn’t want to support him. He shivered. Wrapping his blanket tightly around him, he allowed himself to slide down the wall until he sat huddled on the floor. He could hear people chattering grimly down the halls. The King under the Mountain was dead.

And Bilbo would never get to hear his voice again. He would never get to catch a rare smile, nor stand up to Thorin’s obstinacy. They really had been well-paired in that aspect: Thorin was stubborn even for a dwarf, but when things really mattered, Bilbo could be just as mulish and smart-mouthed on top of that. He recalled little instances when they exchanged sharp words with one another. Looking back, those had been such petty arguments, born of being on the road too long and the inability of either of them to back down. He choked back a laugh at the memories.

It hurt.

The numbness gave way to pain. His stomach tied in knots. He didn’t know if that was preferable to the dry heaves he felt trying to make their way out. Hot tears trailed down his cheeks. He made to wipe at them but knew it was no use.

_“If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world.”_

_Why couldn’t you have realized that sooner?_ Bilbo asked the Thorin in his mind, knowing well that he would never have the chance to ask the real one.

****

Bilbo watched as Bard settled the Arkenstone, the heart of his troubles, on Thorin’s chest. They buried him deep in the mountain alongside his kin. Thranduil laid Orcrist, which he had seized during the Dwarves’ captivity in his kingdom, upon the tomb. The Elvenking had a solemn look to his face but said nothing. Even he seemed to regret this fatal outcome.

Bilbo also kept quiet, preferring to fade into the background. He looked to the two other recent tombs, those of Fili and Kili, whom he had only recently learned died during the battle as well. There hadn’t been a chance to save them for they were dead before the battle ended, both defending their uncle. The hobbit’s heart went out to their mother, Thorin’s sister, who would learn not only of the death of her brother but of both her sons as well. She had already lost another brother and a husband before this. Bilbo couldn’t imagine how much anguish this would cause her. He thought of writing his condolences to her but wouldn’t know what to say. He doubted she would want to hear his words anyway.

Bilbo never really worshipped any higher beings. He thanked Yavanna for bountiful harvests, but that was made habit because everyone in the Shire did it, rather than a personal belief. It was all well and good for people to believe, but he himself was unconvinced.

He prayed now—to anyone who would listen. Oh, how he would trade that stupid stone and all the gold in Erebor for the heirs of Durin to return. He tried to remember the names of the Valar. He beseeched Yavanna first because she was the one he knew most intimately. Then to her husband Aulë, for he created the Dwarves and surely he must care for his children. He begged the dispassionate Mandos despite knowing that even if his words were heard, they would make no difference. He did not care in his grieving desperation. Finally, he begged the Father of All, whom the elves called Eru Ilúvatar, the Creator. He could speak no defense, no unquestionable reason why the world needed Thorin Oakenshield returned. He could only give as evidence the pain in his own heart.

He prayed and wept until even in dreams he continued his appeal. He stood in a darkness lit by stars. There was a heavy pressure to the very air he breathed, a presence, but he did not fear. He cried out to whoever would hear him. When words began to fail, he just whispered, "please".

Every morning when he awoke, Thorin Oakenshield was still dead.

The days since the battle passed in a blur. He had to be told what happened during the siege after the fact. Then was the funeral and after that Dain’s coronation. Bilbo helped out in whatever way he could but his mind wandered home. This was far more adventure than even a Took warranted, let alone a Baggins. He decided it was time to leave. Gandalf and Beorn decided to travel with him and Thranduil offered to let them tag along with his caravan for at least part of the way.

The new king urged Bilbo to take a portion of the treasure he helped reclaim. Bilbo refused at first, stating that his portion would be far too much to safely take back to the Shire. Dain persisted and he ended up with a pony laden with two chests: one filled with silver and the other with gold. It was far more than he would ever need, but after a while he was tired of arguing with Dain. He just wanted to go home. The Mountain held too many painful memories.

When it came time for him to leave with the elves, he said goodbye to his friends. They welcomed him back to Erebor whenever he pleased and he promised an open door to them in the Shire. Turning back to the Mountain, he bid farewell to Thorin and then Fili and Kili. Pain stabbed at him once more but he did not cry. His eyes were so spent it felt as if they would never shed tears again.

When they reached the edge of Mirkwood, Thranduil invited Bilbo to visit his kingdom. Gandalf and Bilbo both declined, preferring to follow Beorn northward and around the forest.

Before they parted ways, Bilbo remembered something. “I beg of you to accept this gift!” He exclaimed, holding out to Thranduil a necklace of silver and pearl that had been given to him as part of his share of the treasure.

The Elvenking had a look of amusement on his face. “In what way have I earned such a gift?” Something told Bilbo that he already knew but he wouldn’t feel right if he didn’t confess, not after all that they went through. So he admitted to eating the elves’ bread and drinking their wine while he and his Companions were trapped in the palace. Even a burglar had feelings, after all. Thranduil accepted his gift and named him elf-friend. Bilbo knew that he should have been elated, for the title of elf-friend was rare and he was without a doubt the first hobbit to ever achieve it, and likely the only one who ever would. But he was tired and still full of sorrow.

Gandalf and Bilbo followed Beorn to his home, where they spent Yule. It was a merry celebration that helped lift Bilbo’s spirits and for the first time in a long time he felt like perhaps the world was okay again.

Gandalf led the way through the Wild. They arrived in Rivendell on the first of May and Bilbo marveled that he had been gone from home for more than a year now. And how much he had changed in that year! At the start of their journey he had felt out of place with the Dwarves, thought of himself as baggage and cursed himself for leaving home. Since then he had learned his own courage, something he had thought he was too much of a Baggins to have. He had formed the sort of bonds with the Company that only people who have depended on one another and fought side-by-side for their lives could share. It was a sort of love that he felt for his friends and he regretted that he had left them with such heaviness in his heart.

And though he would not admit it to even Gandalf, for the first time in his life he had felt what could have become love, had he and Thorin met under different circumstances. Or perhaps the circumstances of their meeting were what spurred it: the respect he earned from the dwarf after the initial disdain. As their journey progressed, they saw different sides of each other. Bilbo became aware of Thorin’s every move. Every casual touch had burned his skin. And he thought that maybe the interest had been returned. There were times when he was conscious of Thorin watching him. In hindsight he felt that they could have had something, had Thorin not fallen prey to the sickness that plagued his father and grandfather, had his gold-lust and obsession with the Arkenstone not blinded him. And even still, Thorin had seen the error of his ways and repented on his deathbed. If he had survived, if they had more time together—

Bilbo shook his head. It did him no good to think like that.

But he knew that he would never meet anyone who affected him like Thorin Oakenshield had. He was effectively ruined because no hobbit had that majestic a bearing or the easy dangerousness Thorin had possessed. Hobbits were not warriors and Bilbo had a hard time believing that he would be able to form that sort of relationship with someone who had the soft eyes and gentle hearts of the people waiting for him back home.

Even in Rivendell he continued to dream of starlight. There were others present now, though he saw no one. He could sense a great debate amongst the faceless beings. It almost felt like they were a jury and he was being judged.

“Take it all, all the gold in the Mountain, just give him back!” He bluffed because taking gold that now belonged to others who had rightfully earned it was wrong, even if it was in trade for such a magnificent life. But these were dreams and it wasn’t as if anyone heard them, so he could bargain away anything he wanted. “Take my own life!” No one would miss him in the Shire and he would gladly trade his own for Thorin’s. At least if their uncle lived, Fili and Kili’s lives would not have been in vain. At least Thorin would not be dead. “Take the bloody Arkenstone if you please!” And that hurt him to offer up. It was him giving the jewel away that brought misery between them in the first place, even if it was done with Thorin’s best interest in mind. Bilbo doubted Thorin would be happy if he woke up from his death and discovered his precious Arkenstone had again vanished. The dwarf was just stubborn enough that Bilbo could imagine his anger at such a deal. But he would gladly take Thorin’s hatred over his body decaying in cold stone.

The voiceless murmurings increased. The stars seemed to brighten and the pressure around him pressed in tighter until he began to panic.

He awoke in white sheets and a cold sweat and briefly wondered where he was. _Rivendell, that’s right._ They had spent the past week there. Though he had enjoyed the feasts and cheerful songs of the elves, somehow he knew it was time for them to take their leave.

Lord Elrond came to greet them before their departure. He gave Bilbo a questioning look and made to say something but stopped. “Farewell, Master Baggins,” he said instead. “You will always be welcome here.”

Bilbo left with Gandalf. He started to feel a lightening in his chest. They were very nearly home again. “Our back is to legends,” he commented to the wizard as they rode along, “and we are coming home. I suppose this is a first taste of it.”

“There is a long road yet,” Gandalf reminded him, but there was a relief in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. The wizard wondered if his companion could sense the magic that had coalesced around him since the previous night. Lord Elrond seemed to have, but if his friend took notice of any change in himself he said nothing. Gandalf didn’t know what, but he sensed that something had happened and it concerned the hobbit.

“But it is the last road,” Bilbo stated with finality. Gandalf continued his intent study. It felt as if a great power had touched Bilbo, one stronger than even Gandalf, but those beings did not intercede lightly with the lives of mortals. It was strange; it was curious and Gandalf would have to keep an eye open. Some greater power was at work—towards what purpose he had no idea, but this would not be the end for Bilbo Baggins.

****

Bilbo would remember June the 22nd as the day he arrived back in the Shire. He and Gandalf came over a rise and he could see his home nestled in the Hill. Gladdened and weary, he stopped to stare. This was his home, his peace. He felt a welling of cheer at that moment and couldn’t help but sing about his return home.

“Eyes that fire and sword have seen,

“And horror in the halls of stone,

“Look at last on meadows green,

“And trees and hills they long have known.”

This brought a smile to Gandalf’s face. “My dear Bilbo! You are not the hobbit that you were.”

No, he wasn’t. Bilbo knew this with utter surety. Gandalf had told him as much at the very beginning of their journey, hadn’t he? That if he returned he would not be the same.

The old Bilbo, for example, would have floundered and stuttered if he returned home to find that his possessions were being sold in a public auction. But this Bilbo had fought trolls and spiders, deceived an elf king, escaped the strange creature below the goblin tunnels, fought in a war against Orcs, and _faced a bloody dragon_ , so rather than panic, he marched up to the auctioneers and demanded that everyone _please_ leave his home, he was tired after his long journey and wished to rest, thank you very much! He would deal with regaining his sold belongings later. After all, he knew that there were far more precious things than his material possessions and there was no way he was getting any of those back.

****

Bag End was far too quiet. That was absurd, Bilbo thought, because he had lived alone for seven years prior to his journey. He should have been used to the silent vastness of his home. But he was missing the sounds of heavy footsteps, of carefree and booming laughter following some crude joke or other, the singing and shouting. He even missed the smell, as impossible as that sounded. He had grown accustomed to the smell of unwashed Dwarvish men. His home smelled too stagnant, and it was not just from disuse.

Bilbo could not sleep like he used to, in that deep, naïve sleep of most folk. Safe in his bed, he slept with ears listening for the danger that would never come. His brain knew that he was being needlessly careful but he could not help it. When one returned home from the battlefield, they did not necessarily leave the monsters behind. But instead of physical enemies made of flesh and bone and wielding swords, his new opponents were the ones of mind and heart, carrying with them weapons of memory, loneliness, and grief. These newer foes weren’t nearly as easy to vanquish.

"It was my birthday today, wasn’t it?" He commented aloud one night, knowing that at least one of his companions would use it as an excuse to celebrate. He realized just as he finished the statement that no one would answer. Most of the dwarves had been appalled when they realized Bilbo’s birthday had come and gone during their quest without anyone knowing. In Bilbo’s defense, he hadn’t said anything because far more important things were going on. Next year, his friends told him, next year they would throw a huge celebration in his honor, because by then the kingdom of Erebor would be well on its way to its former glory.

It was next year and Bilbo was alone. He hadn’t even remembered. He had simply left his home that morning and started walking; he returned only after night had fallen. He had taken to restlessly wandering the Shire because he could not sit still anymore. When he did confine himself to his home, he wrote poems and recorded his adventures in a big red book. He knew the other hobbits talked about him and none too subtly. His reputation as a respectable hobbit (a Baggins!) was damaged and he couldn’t bring himself to care. Even the Tooks were weary around him.

Autumn was ending and Durin’s Day was upon him. The dreams had continued for a while, only to lessen as he settled back in to his home. That’s not to say that his pleas stopped—the prayers became his nightly ritual. The presences watching him disappeared temporarily, but as Durin’s Day approached he felt their return. Even in his waking hours now he felt as if someone was watching him. When he woke up on the last day of autumn, he felt hyperaware of everything going on about him. Every noise startled him, every movement in the corner of his eye. It wasn’t a fearful paranoia, but an unexplainable anticipation. What he was awaiting he had no idea. He thought about taking a walk to clear his head but decided against it.

The sun was setting. He remembered the year previous and how he waited with the dwarves, a similar nervous energy flooding his veins at the thought of finding the secret door. It felt much like that but Bilbo could not figure why.

Night came and the stars were alight. Bilbo felt the tension leave his limbs suddenly as pieces in him months ago broken seemed to fall back into place.

There was a knock at the door.

A different sort of apprehension returned as he approached the door, this one of the warrior he had become. People didn’t visit him often anymore so there was no reason anyone should he at his doorstep at this hour.

His fingers touched the knob. He hesitated.

_Nothing outside that door can be worse than a dragon._ He considered that statement a moment. _Except the Sackville-Bagginses._

He opened the door. The sight knocked the breath out of him. It felt as if his heart stuttered and limbs wouldn’t cooperate. He tried to speak but his voice caught before he could make a sound.

His visitor stood a few inches taller than him. His dark, grey-streaked hair was wind-whipped. Pale blue eyes were scared—had Bilbo ever seen him look so frightened? He wore armor, the same that he had been buried in. Even still there were visible wounds though they were nowhere near as grave as they had been when he died.

“Bilbo.” Thorin Oakenshield braced himself against the doorframe.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author notes: Luckily this reunion goes a bit better than one Martin Freeman was involved in recently on television.  
> Artistic license, ahoy! ((And LOL, zombie-Dwarf, if you want to get technical about it.))

**Just One Chance**

**Chapter Two**

 

Thorin became conscious of a cavernous opening, of darkness so vast it put the halls of Erebor to shame. A presence accompanied him in that space but his calls went unanswered, save for a distant noise. It almost sounded to him like forge-sounds: the clanging of hammers, the roars of fires; but some quality made it almost musical.

 _I am dead,_ he thought, _and this is where I will wait until the End._ He knew that he was dead for he remembered dying and he could feel neither air nor the ground beneath him. He was in a void and engulfed by its enormity in a way that made him insignificant.

He regretted how his time had ended. He regretted how he allowed his gold-lust to overtake him, how he let his search for the Arkenstone consume him. His actions led to the death of his nephews. His sister was alone now and it was his fault. Older siblings were supposed to protect their younger ones. He had failed Frerin and now Dis. He deserved death for the pain he caused her.

_But what of Bilbo Baggins?_

Thorin knew what he had done to the hobbit, how he threatened him, cursed his name, and banished him from Erebor. Only in death had he realized the error of his ways. And yet Bilbo had returned to his side as he lay dying. The pain in his eyes tore at Thorin. He didn’t deserve Bilbo’s mourning, not after how he treated him; the hobbit was saddened by his passing despite that. Bilbo would grieve for the man who had hurt him and Thorin felt helpless because he was the cause and could not fix it.

_Mahal, I need to apologize to him. I just need one chance to say I’m sorry._

He didn’t know how long he existed there in the dark. Once in a while he heard something that he thought were words, though no voice carried them. Incapable of sleep, he drifted and stewed in his sorrows. There were so many things he needed to say. All he needed was the chance to make things right and ask for the forgiveness he did not deserve. Not from the Valar or his ancestors, but from one hobbit, the humblest of them all.

_I need to tell him my heart._

****

Thorin felt the ground beneath his feet. The air carried a cool breeze and he shivered at the sudden feeling after so long of nothingness. He smelt grass, livestock, and baking bread in the distance. He could hear the trees rustling. His body was sore all over. He opened his eyes and saw a door. It was a door he’d seen before, the destination he searched for so long ago, only finding it after losing his way twice. It was fitting that he should find himself before it again after having been lost in the void. His heart leapt. Surely he couldn’t be here. This was a dream, a cruel vision set before him in death. He had died in the halls of his forbearers and this could only be the Valar laughing at him. His blood raced and he felt a fearful, paranoid twinge. How could this be? What sort of sorcery was this? He lifted his hand and touched the green wood. It felt rough under his fingers—real. It was real. He really was in the Shire.

He knocked and waited, reminded of another night long ago. How long ago he had no idea, but he sensed that time had passed.

The image of the hobbit opening the door mirrored that of their first encounter, but this time he felt a jolt of recognition and relief. Bilbo had survived. The burglar looked shocked, limbs stiff with his mouth opening and closing, but altogether healthy.

“Bilbo.” Thorin sunk against the door, his ability to stand draining from his body with the mounted tension.

Bilbo hesitated, wanting to touch but afraid that if he did, the dwarf before him would shatter. Illusions only worked if one took them for granted, didn’t try to figure or disprove them. Thorin had to be a waking dream. If Bilbo touched him, that would only shatter this illusion.

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” The dwarf asked.

Bilbo could only nod, stepping back and gesturing for Thorin to enter. He did and Bilbo closed the door behind him.

Thorin turned to him, legs buckling. He stumbled and Bilbo caught him before he knew what he was doing.

The weight felt solid enough, the hobbit reasoned. He felt real. He was warm like Bilbo remembered. He smelled like Thorin Oakenshield had: sweat, the outdoors, steel and leathers, and that scent that was him.

When Thorin once again regained his footing, Bilbo pulled himself away just far enough to look at him properly. He raised his palms to Thorin’s face, feeling his cheeks, brow, beard. There was a cut on his forehead and another across his nose. They had begun to heal in a way they never had a chance to in life. Bilbo touched these gingerly and Thorin winced. One hand trailed up into the tangle of hair. His braids were ragged.

Thorin caught the hobbit’s wrists and held him still, himself in awe, scared that Bilbo would vanish and he would return to the dark. His heart pounded the same way it did before battle, but no Orc was as terrifying as their current situation. The hobbit looked up at him, dark blue eyes filled with hope. Thorin wanted to touch him the same way he had been touched. He wanted to run his hands all over Bilbo’s body just to assure himself he wasn’t dreaming. _If this is a dream, never let me wake._

“You’re real,” Bilbo whispered. He threw his weight towards Thorin, catching the dwarf by surprise, and wrapped his arms around his neck in an embrace. Thorin grimaced at the pain in his ribs but could not stop himself from returning it. The little body in his arms shuddered and trembled, and Thorin realized that Bilbo was crying. He pressed his face against curly hair and breathed in the hobbit’s scent. Something in him settled. For the moment, nothing else mattered—not his resurrection, not the hundreds of other questions he needed answered. All that mattered was Bilbo in his arms. He could allow himself a few selfish moments in which he wasn’t a king-in-exile or the dead King under the Mountain. He was just a dwarf miraculously reunited with someone he cared about far more than he should, whom he respected and loved.

He found himself running a hand up and down the hobbit’s spine, making the same soothing noises he used to make for his nephews when they were younger and had nightmares. “I’m sorry,” he muttered into Bilbo’s hair. He had plenty of time in the darkness to plan an entire speech but words failed him now. “I’m so sorry.”

Bilbo just squeezed him tighter. Thorin was content letting them hold each other for the moment.

“You were dead,” Bilbo mumbled breathlessly.

“Yes,” Thorin answered.

“I watched you die!” A fist landed solidly against the dwarf’s chest. It wasn’t meant as a hard blow but it he had already been hurting. The hobbit pushed against Thorin but the dwarf wouldn’t let him out of the embrace. Not yet. “You died! Do you have any idea-”he pushed against Thorin’s chest again- “do you know how much that hurt? Do you know how many nights I cried myself to sleep, how often I caught myself looking for you, only to realize that you were never going to be there again?”

“I’m sorry.” They were the only words Thorin could manage.

“I mourned you and Fili and Kili. I watched them bury you with that bloody Arkenstone. I watched Balin weep over your body. You have no right-” he stopped and took a few deep breaths to calm himself. Thorin released his hold and he stepped back. “But you’re alive. You’re here and you’re alive.” There was wonder in his voice now.

“I’m sorry for how I treated you before.” Thorin had to open that dialogue. If he had one chance alone to apologize to Bilbo, he needed to use it wisely. For all he knew, he could vanish back into the void any moment now.

Bilbo crossed his arms. “Well, at least your vocabulary has increased, even if it is repetitive.” The irritated look on his face was ruined by his red, puffy eyes.

Thorin shook his head at the hobbit. “There is no excuse for my actions against you. I allowed the treasure hoard to consume me.” He stopped as Bilbo held a finger up to him.

The hobbit put his hands on his hips. “I will not deny that your words and actions hurt me, but I’ve had a lot of time to think about things and you were not yourself. I know that.” He let his gaze fall somewhere around Thorin’s boots. “I also admit that I am not blameless. I did take the Arkenstone, though I knew how much you coveted it.” He lowered his arms and let them hang by his sides. “Actually, it was because you were so obsessed with it and being a general arse that I hid it from you in the first place and then gave it to Bard.”

Thorin expected himself to grow angry with the admission but the white-hot rage was notable in its absence. On his death bed he snapped out of the curse like one wakes from a fevered sickness. He had recovered and the Arkenstone, the treasure of his people, no longer had a hold on him. He felt far more lucid now than he had in Erebor. For that he was relieved. “You have no need to apologize.” The actions were done out of love, or at least in friendship.

“I wasn’t apologizing,” Bilbo replied, “simply explaining myself now that you seem to be yourself.”

Thorin should have been angry at the cheek of his words. If any other person had said those things to him, he probably would have hit them. But Bilbo was right, and he was no longer the same timid hobbit he was the last time they stood in this place. So Thorin laughed instead. Then he realized that laughing hurt.

“It had been on my mind for a long time, what I would say to you if I got the opportunity,” Bilbo continued. “Of course I never thought that I would. I prayed, but never thought anything would come of it.” He looked Thorin back in the eye. “You are forgiven. For everything.”

Thorin closed his eyes, weight lifting from his shoulders. He had done what he came here to do. Mahal could take him back now that his purpose was complete. Despite this, a selfish part of him raged that this was not enough time, that there would never be enough time with Bilbo, not even if they had the lifespan of elves. He was drawn to the hobbit in a way that he never thought possible for him. This small, very ordinary-looking creature contained within him more bravery than most dwarves Thorin had ever known. Seen in that light, Bilbo Baggins became beautiful to him, and (now that he was no longer gold-sick) more dear than the vast wealth hidden in the Mountain.

Dwarves did not love as easily as Men or elves. Mahal did not make them to do so. But when they did, they became possessive and jealous concerning the subject of their desires. Thorin had not wanted to love Mr. Baggins, but he had no choice. It wasn’t due to the Valar or fate, but simply because Bilbo was endearingly himself. It was because of this love that the other man’s apparent betrayal had hurt all the more.

Eyes still closed and hit with a solid weariness, Thorin felt arms wrap around his neck again, gently this time. He opened his eyes as Bilbo tucked himself against his body. Surely Thorin wasn’t the only one who thought that he fit there. He first noticed after they landed on the Carrock, the first time he held Bilbo close. The notion worried him at first. Now it seemed as if the Valar had made them for each other. Why else would they have given him this chance?

Thorin hadn’t intended to kiss Bilbo. Perhaps it was even the hobbit who initiated it, but Thorin caught himself with his mouth pressed to the hobbit’s. It was a short-lived touch of lips, merely a sample of the other man, but definitely reciprocated.

Drawing away and taken aback by his own actions, Bilbo couldn’t help but remain with his eyes closed as he tried to memorize the taste of the dwarf’s lips, of how his beard felt against him as they kissed. It was maddeningly brief but Bilbo scolded himself for taking liberties. Thorin may have shown an interest during their travels but that did not necessarily mean he would want Bilbo now.

He opened his eyes. The look on Thorin’s face made his heart simultaneously speed up and leap out of his chest. He couldn’t rightly describe how the dwarf was looking at him, but he could only guess (or perhaps hope) that it was akin to the draining, all-consuming relief and joy he had when he first laid eyes on Bag End again after his journey. Thorin looked at him like he had finally found what he had thought lost forever. It was, quite frankly, terrifying in its implications.

There was also more than a little bone-deep weariness and that was much easier for Bilbo to focus on at the moment. He was well-versed in how to care for a tired guest; in matters of the heart not so much, so he would put those aside for now and fall back on routine.

Bilbo stepped back even though he wanted to keep touching Thorin. He clasped his hands together in front of him. “You look exhausted! Please, get some rest.” Bilbo considered the state of his home, trying to think which guestroom to put Thorin in. Unfortunately he remembered quite well that much of his furniture had been sold off earlier that year and that the intact guestrooms were full of dust, clutter, and mothballs. If he had known his former leader, friend, and whatever-else-they-were would be returning from the dead, he would have taken the time to tidy up. _Nothing for it,_ he sighed. He had a history of being nothing if not a very gracious host and there was no way he would lost _that_ reputation, even if he had lost all other in the Shire, just because the impossible happened. “This way,” Bilbo motioned towards his own bedroom, quite confident that he was not going to be using it tonight. His veins felt like they were full of lightning and anxious energy manifested itself as goose bumps along his flesh. No, there was no way he would sleep tonight, but Thorin looked as if he were about to drop dead again. _Speaking of which…_ “Your injuries… do you need assistance?”

“No.” Thorin looked himself over. From what he could tell, the wounds he received in battle were already scabbed over and well on their way to healing. He wasn’t bleeding and the ones that had proven fatal previously were now merely distracting. He didn’t know how his face looked but considering Bilbo wasn’t forcing medical supplies on him it probably wasn’t as bad as it had been. He would check himself over when he had a moment of privacy.

“Alright,” Bilbo trailed off, not necessarily convinced but too polite to push the issue. “Are you hungry?” At least his pantry was well-stocked, he recalled.

Thorin shook his head, in parts amused by his flustered host and in other parts wishing for more of the closeness they had just shared. But he would respect the hobbit’s need for distance. At least his rejection had not been outright refusal; there was a chance. It had been hard to tell where he stood with the former burglar, at least until the end. If he had lived, perhaps they would be ruling Erebor side-by-side (though he could barely imagine Bilbo agreeing to such a thing). But time had passed and Thorin doubted that the feelings of hobbits were as stubbornly unwavering as those of his own people. Such was the nature of dwarves: once in love, there would be no other and rejection was synonymous with life spent alone. Whatever emotions Bilbo’s heart had held for him had likely faded or changed with time.

“How long have I been… gone?” he asked.

Bilbo turned back to look at him. “It has been almost a full year since you died. Yesterday was the last day of autumn.”

“Did any other members of the Company…” He left his question unfinished. He had destroyed his sister’s life already. Some masochistic part of him needed to know if he had ruined anyone else’s.

“Just you and Fili and Kili. When last I received word from Balin, everyone else was well and your sister was in the process of relocating to the Lonely Mountain, where Dain rules.” The hobbit’s face was stoic as he recounted his last days in Erebor. Perhaps he should write to Balin about the king’s return, but he wasn’t altogether sure how to handle this situation. He and Thorin would have to talk in the morning.

He picked up a lit lamp and carried it through his darkened house. Leading Thorin to his own room, he gestured to the bed from the doorway. Somehow both of them entering the dim bedroom seemed entirely too forward on Bilbo’s part. Not that he had never thought about it—but this certainly wasn’t the time for things like that! His face heated anyway and he thanked how dark it was so his companion couldn’t see. Only his lamp and moonlight from the windows threatened to reveal his embarrassment.

Thorin stepped in the room and turned back to him, a question on his lips.

“Just sleep,” Bilbo interrupted.

The dwarf still looked as if he wanted to speak but instead acquiesced, nodding. “Thank you.”

Bilbo shook his head. “It’s no problem at all.” Unsaid words were heavy between them and cut like a knife. As much as Bilbo wanted to sit with the dwarf all night, he needed space in order to come to terms. Feeling awkward every time he glimpsed Thorin’s eyes was counterproductive. This still didn’t feel real. Maybe it was a dream after all and when he awoke in the morning, it would be to an empty home and a renewed feeling of isolation. This made him want to cross the distance, reach out and take Thorin in his arms again, if for no other reason than to reassure himself. But if he did that there was no telling what else he would do, what sort of things he would reveal.

 _But all you have to do is say the words and the distance between you would disappear. He wants it to. Say something, at least._ “Well, good night, then.” He cursed himself for his cowardly behavior as he retreated, just glimpsing Thorin sinking onto his bed as he closed the door.

Bilbo didn’t understand himself. There were moments on their journey when Bilbo really hoped that maybe something could have formed, some sort of relationship (though in his saner moments he knew that it could never end well between them—look how right he was!). But now that the opportunity unexpectedly lay before him, he panicked and ran like the little bunny that Beorn had taken to referring to him as.

 _I’m a Baggins! Not particularly respectable anymore, but still a Baggins,_ he thought.

_What if he’s gone by morning and you didn’t say anything? You would regret it forever._

_What if I did say something? What if he told me he loves me? What if we fell in love and he went back to being dead?_ Upon seeing him again, Bilbo’s heart was dangerously close to it already. _I wouldn’t survive that._

The door was closed and Bilbo had the urge to open it again to check that Thorin was still there. His hand twitched to the doorknob but he pulled it away and forced himself back down the hall. He set his lamp aside and sank into his armchair in front of the fireplace. That, at least, had survived the auction. At this rate it would take him years to retrieve everything.

He kept glancing back towards his room. Whenever there was a noise and sometimes even when he imagined he heard something. He wanted to go back and see him. What if this was temporary? What if this was his only chance; _their_ only chance? But Thorin had nearly passed out when offered a place to rest, so he needed to sleep and it wasn’t Bilbo’s place to disturb him. So he kept telling himself.

He turned his thoughts instead to what needed to be done, assuming Thorin was still there when morning came. Balin deserved to know. Bilbo had no excuse not to write to him—he knew the elderly dwarf dwelled in the Lonely Mountain and that he had been hit especially hard with Thorin’s passing. And Thorin’s sister as well. It was only right. And Gandalf would perhaps know why this happened because he was a wizard and wizards knew things. But how could he contact his friend? Gandalf was nomadic, wandering the world as he pleased and was needed. He could leave a message for him at that inn he fancied in Bree, but that would attract unwanted attention. No, he would simply have to wait for Gandalf to once again show up on his doorstep. He thought hard about what he would say to each of the three. Dis was the hardest as he had never met her, but still he felt not saying anything would be wronging her.

Bilbo pulled himself out of his armchair. It should be safe enough by now, he figured. He crept back to his bedroom and nudged the door open as quietly as he could.

It spoke to how tired Thorin was that the dwarf did not burst awake at the movement. On the road, any untoward noise or change in atmosphere would wake him. Now, Bilbo arrived with a lit lamp and he continued to sleep. For a moment upon entering the room, Bilbo feared that he had died once again. His heart clenched in his chest—but no, the dwarf snored mildly and his bare chest moved with his breath. Apparently he had removed at least some of his clothing before falling asleep. Bilbo repressed a heat that started in his belly.

He sat on the edge of the bed and watched Thorin sleep. It was a rare opportunity. The poor dwarf looked haggard and aged, far too like the corpse he was before in this flickering lamplight. Bilbo’s eyes travelled the expanse of his chest, this time without the flicker of lust. His abdomen was a series of cuts and bruises with a particularly nasty gash in his midsection—that had been the killing blow. It was closed now and scabbed over but would likely scar. Bilbo felt a twinge of guilt for having embraced Thorin so hard. Had he known how injured the other man was, he would have been more careful.

The wounds continued down and under the blanket that covered Thorin’s lower half. A part of Bilbo wondered just how undressed Thorin was while lying in his bed. But satisfying his curiosity would be improper! He stood stiffly and banished those thoughts. Feeling scandalized, he strode towards the door.

He stopped, turned, and retook the distance across his room to stand next to the bed again. He just wanted to…

His fingers grazed Thorin’s cheek and he prayed the dwarf wouldn’t wake up. When Thorin shifted in his sleep it startled Bilbo. He drew away as if the touch burned him. He willed his heart to slow down.

“I’m glad you’re back,” he said in a soft voice as he left his sleeping companion.

****

Unbeknownst to the peoples of Arda, the Arkenstone lay shattered in the empty tomb of Thorin Thrain’s son, the inner glow that captivated and maddened all who glimpsed it lost.

 


End file.
